Finding my comfort zone on the Ave.

I took a chance this year -- I moved out of my comfort zone. I had roommates that were my friends first, and living with them ruined our friendships. I got fed up with that and decided to move out on my own -- or as close to that as I could afford. I ended up in a rooming house on the Ave.

I loved telling people what I had done -- they were all so very impressed. It sounded like such an adventure, moving into a place I didn't know with people I didn't know, and on the Ave. no less -- oh yeah, I was laughing in the face of danger. Actually, it was pretty lame. Being the shy girl that I was, I kept to myself and ate all my meals in my bedroom. After about a week of hiding in my new abode, I went to lunch with a friend of mine. After hearing about my plight, she decided to solve my problem. We made Rice Krispy treats for my housemates. It was an instant success and they immediately loved me.

Over the next few weeks, I found myself in the living room talking to Phillip, the biggest Rice Krispy treat fan. At first, I was a bit intimidated -- he's 6 feet 4 inches tall and bald, but he turned out to be an OK guy. Phillip was a student at Seattle University, and we talked about everything from music to sex to foreign policy. I felt comfortable talking to him in a way that I wouldn't have with friends I had grown up with. He didn't know me and had no idea who I was, so I could say anything and it wouldn't be out of character. This factor made our relationship a lot more honest and comfortable than others I have had. It soon became apparent that Phillip and I were destined for the friendship path, and he became my surrogate older brother. I'd tease him about his latest conquests and argue with him over the definition of mid-20s, and he'd tease me about the boy I had a crush on and embarrass me royally when I invited Mr. X over for study sessions.

Moving out of my comfort zone gave me something I never expected. Phillip isn't the kind of guy I generally interact with. Not one part of our lives overlap except for the twist of fate that put us together in the house. No one in my house is the type of person I'd expect to be friends with, but I get along with them all. There's Scott, the middle-aged freelance writer; Katsu, the Japanese exchange student trying to learn enough English to get into business school; Mike, the Army reservist who just finished his student teaching; Francisco, my fellow basement dweller, who is the designated handyman; and a host of others who come and go every few months.

The experience hasn't been filled with hearts and flowers. There have been a few encounters I've had to get used to. This winter, as I walked to my 8:30 a.m. class, someone crawled out of a dumpster where they'd spent the night. Most nights, I come home to find a line winding through the alley leading to the food bank behind my house. Once a week, the local addicts gather around a van in the parking lot next door to exchange their used needles for clean ones. And recently, a homeless man has taken to using my window box as a closet, and stores bags of clothes about 18 inches from my sleeping self.

But there have been some great memories here. Drunken nights on the roof with the guys, rejoicing over the Apple Cup victory with Ethan, my fellow Husky football fan; sending Christmas cookies to the guys who weren't having a holiday with their families, having someone to congratulate me when I won a scholarship.

When I think about my ideal living situation, this is not it. I came here to test myself, to force myself to be more outgoing and independent. I definitely think I've passed the test. I moved here to get out of my comfort zone, but I realize now that I've finally found it.